"America I've given you all and now I'm nothing."

Nothing.
An empty chair in town hall.
A piano with no white keys.
An asterisk in the legislation, if I'm lucky.
I ate your bread,
attended your circuses,
burned my bridges for promises you made.
I remember I saved four-thousand dollars
after college and believed I had foresight.
You burned it all before me
and then pierced my eye with your sword of justice,
placed me on the scales and found that
all your wealth weighs more than I do.
The American Dream!
Yet, how am I to dream if I cannot see?
And do you feel heavy?
No, I don't believe you do.
You have your patriots to prop you up when you begin to slouch.
And good on them for being more blind than I am,
or good on them for otherwise.
But that is not the American dream, is it?
I think not, but then again, who am I?

when we first came to this land,
blood was shed for our entitlement.
when we first came to this land,
we took the things that were never ours
and trampled its native growth.
when we first came to this land,
we instilled in it a sickness that may never be cured;
we tarnished sacred lands with greed we call virtue,
and when we did so, we stood on the throat of humanity.

there are some people who are doomed to repeat history.
there are some people who will trample native growth,
spread sickness,
and stand on the throats of our people.
with the heavy weight of six centuries upon our shoulders
we stand,
a hobbled nation no longer able to stride,
heads held high,
through this sea of blood without meeting challenge.

with six centuries passed, we commit genocide anew.
it is not the native growth that suffers,
but the very peddlers of greed who are infected
by the sickness of consequence.
but they alone will not suffer.
as we march through this new iteration of history
wearing death masks instead of cloth,
thousands of innocents lose their lives
in a battle of which they were never a part.

the single day that we dedicate to gratitude,
the one day of the year some remember
to give thanks in between passing heavy dishes,
is not a commemoration of discovery.
it is a commemoration of consequence and greed.
and six centuries later,
it is our own people who we will massacre with the cry of freedom.

were it easy, we would be so lucky
but, alas instead, here we're found
where our ground is scaffold
its tarrish glue fractured
the brown boards we walk, cracked
the whole thing creaking under its own weight
poised for collapse

American barcodes
All sit with a grin.

American barcodes
Can’t you see my skin?

American barcodes
I’m wearing my mask.

American barcodes
The police don’t ask.

i’m still looking for the version of america that was taught to us in school.

the america where the flag that stands
stands for everyone’s freedom,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

the america where those who protect and serve
protect and serve everyone,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

the america where all are welcomed
and we welcome everyone with open arms,
not just those whose skin is made of porcelain.

but i guess this is only the america that lives inside my head.
the america that never existed.
where “everyone is free”
yet everyone whose skin isn’t made of porcelain is seen as a felon, a ‘bad man’, a walking disease, a theft...
as an inferior.
and the stars and the stripes that so gloriously fly
even in the darkest of nights
no longer stand for freedom.
because this “freedom” only applies to those whose skin is made of porcelain.

what makes the porcelain people so different than those whose skin is made of velvet?
when the version of america where that question is answered exists, take me there
because
no one is free, until everyone is free.